The Reluctant Hero
by Kodiak Bear Country
Summary: Rodney has to care for a sick team during a hurricane, but unfortunately for Rodney, he’s not without his own physical woes. It’s not huge drama, somewhat lighthearted with some serious moments.


Title: The Reluctant Hero  
Author: Kodiak bear  
Rating: K+  
Category: Gen, drama, teamfic  
Summary: Rodney has to care for a sick team during a hurricane, but unfortunately for Rodney, he's not without his own physical woes. It's not huge drama, somewhat lighthearted with some serious moments.  
AN: This was a request fic for my dear friend Kylen who keeps pushing me to stick with it, and go that extra mile in my writing. Thank you for helping me grow! Thank you to Linzi and Gaffer, who got sent this entire thing to beta all at once, now that's friendship!

**The Reluctant Hero**

Rodney hated his alarm. He spent most of his nights awake, and when he finally did give in to biological need, he regretted it the most when the alarm went off. This morning wasn't the exception, and Rodney got up after twenty minutes of snooze time, thinking it wasn't enough. He padded to the bathroom and went through the morning routine on automatic, not fully waking up until after he showered. He had a backache, and on top of the fact that mornings suck, it put him in a worse mood than usual.

When Rodney finally made it to the briefing, everyone was sitting in their chairs already, fiddling with pens, and things, and in conversation over last night's thunderstorm. It's one of the reasons he was up later than usual – usual for him – because there were concerns that the grounding stations weren't working effectively after their little experiment with them six months ago. He wasn't an imbecile, and when Rodney had certified the grounding stations as one-hundred percent, he hadn't signed off on them as 'working but not really safe', so why certain individuals chose to believe imminent failure was possible, he had no idea. Sometimes he just wondered at the lack of competence in general by some of the scientific staff.

"Mornin' McKay," greeted Sheppard. He was smiling that secret smile that he always did when he thought he'd got Rodney pegged for whatever his mood might be. Trouble is, John had an uncanny ability to read him right, every time. It just served to piss him off more.

"Good morning, Rodney." Teyla smiled warmly, pretending to ignore the black cloud that hovered over McKay's head. He knew she read him too well, also.

If one more person greeted him, Rodney was likely to rip their heads off. He grunted, pushing a hand against the annoying backache, and slipped into his chair. "Late night," he said testily, to explain his tardiness. He tried not to, but he couldn't hold it back. "Some individuals find it impossible to do their job without someone holding their hand."

Elizabeth cleared her throat and tried to keep the diplomatic smile on her face. "Some individuals were only doing what was requested of them," she stressed.

"If you need help, Rodney, I'd be more than happy to lend a hand," offered Sheppard.

The colonel was enjoying his disgruntled state entirely too much, and McKay shared a pithy look equally with John and Elizabeth, only forgoing Teyla and Ronon, who this time, had nothing to do with his surly mood. "Where were you last night, Colonel?" John had helped in the alteration of the grounding stations the first time. The memory of the events surrounding it wasn't one he liked to dwell on, but making Sheppard run to the farthest grounding station had been fun.

John ignored the pointless question, because it really didn't matter anyway, and brought McKay a cup of coffee, setting it down, the contents sloshing over the rim just enough to create an annoying ring under the bottom of the mug. Glaring at the cup, Rodney lifted it and wiped with his sleeve. "Thanks," he muttered.

"We'd all like to see the human version of Rodney McKay," John said, getting himself a cup as well before slipping into his chair again.

"Ha ha ha," Rodney drawled. "Can we talk about the mission instead of my physical condition – that is the point of this ungodly early briefing."

Ronon leaned back so far in the chair that it creaked ominously, and John finally said out of the corner of his mouth, "Falling isn't graceful, big guy." The runner scowled, but let the chair snap back onto all four wheels.

"PK4-3X0 is a planet that Teyla feels has good trading prospects. We aren't as concerned with food products so much as grain for the Athosians. We've found that Earth seeds grow slower, and produce less here. Also, information, John. We need Intel on the Wraith. It should be a straightforward mission. Is twelve hours enough, or do you need more?" Elizabeth glanced at Teyla for the last question.

"A day would be better," Teyla answered. "The Gnarians prefer a lengthy process of negotiation intermixed with social aspects." Her eyes shifted to Rodney and she smiled mischievously, "They do enjoy eating frequent meals throughout the process."

Everyone knew that Rodney liked food. He'd debated becoming a chef, but found calculating mathematical equations in cake icing didn't do it for other people. That and he really wasn't a people person. He decided instead to stick with physics, and work with cuisine as a side hobby. His job in Antarctica and now Atlantis had reduced his hobby to nothing more than appreciating native dishes they found off world, with always a careful eye (and nose) to make sure he didn't run afoul of hidden citrus.

But oddly enough, his appetite wasn't there today. He'd skipped breakfast, and knew he'd have to eat something or his blood sugar would drop through the floor. Sour stomach, late night, too much coffee – and with that, he sipped his cup, and wished he had a damn pill for this backache. Today just completely sucked. "Can we go already?" he snapped. "Make peace, eat, drink and be merry. Let's just hope it isn't another Last Supper."

Elizabeth eyed McKay speculatively. "Yes, you're cleared for the mission." She swept everyone in the room with a curt look and added, "See Carson for your pre-mission check, and good luck. I won't be there to see you off." At their curious looks, well, three curious and one annoyed, she lifted her tablet PC and turned it to show a roster of names. "Annual reviews," she explained. "I'm locking myself in my office till I'm finished."

John leaned across the table and tapped a hand near Rodney, "So be nice, or you might find yourself shipped to another galaxy."

Even as grouchy as he felt, it made Rodney snort. "Right. As if they could find somewhere worse than a galaxy infested with monsters and," he raised an eyebrow at John and added with relish, "bugs."

Sheppard pulled back quickly and his mouth formed an 'ouch'.

"I can think of worse things," Ronon added casually. He was trying his hand at balancing the chair again. "Those things," he said, meaning the Iratus bugs that Sheppard hated. "Babies compared to some I've seen."

"Stop it," hissed Teyla. "There are no such things."

"Sure there is. On this one world I gated to, the bugs there were as big as -"

Elizabeth pushed back and smiled weakly. "Okay, people, time's up. Good luck, and Ronon…" she gestured for him to come closer. He went to pull the chair back upright, slipped, grabbed for the table in time to keep the chair from tipping over entirely and managed to extricate himself and push the chair back where it belonged. He hunched down to hear her request.

John was heading for the door with Teyla, so Rodney was the only one left who caught her question, voiced low to keep it private. "Do you remember the address to the world with the bugs?" She mimed 'yay big' with her hands.

Bemused, he nodded. She looked relieved. "Tell the gate technician to lock that address out of the database, please," and then she gathered her tablet PC and left hurriedly. Ronon grinned wolfishly at McKay's stare. Rodney could only think of an appropriate expletive, and that Ronon had been telling the truth. Damn, bugs that made the Iratus ones look like babies? He felt skeeved out and he hadn't even seen them. Shaking his head, Rodney got up, wincing at the knot down low in his back. He really did need to ask Carson for something to get rid of this irritating ache.

OoO

PK4-3X0 was annoyingly lovely. Rodney stepped through and noted the temperate warmth, birds singing, and trees swaying gently in the soft breeze. It was summer here; they'd discovered from Teyla that the winters weren't so mild, but not any worse than what you'd get in Alaska or Canada. Lots of snow, frigid temperatures and ice, but six months instead of an Earth typical nine when you factored in fall and spring thaw.

Carson had given him a couple of Motrin for his muscle pull or whatever it was, and told him to take it easy. He'd asked for a medical excuse to avoid this 'feast and foist', but the man had the nerve to condescendingly tell Rodney that a backache wasn't enough of an excuse and to come back when he had something potentially fatal or maiming. Rodney sighed, thinking how grossly unfair it was. He overreacted to one thing, and now everyone labeled him a hypochondriac.

It didn't matter anyway, the Motrin had taken care of the ache in his back, and now all he had to deal with was an increasingly whiny sour stomach. He really did need to lay off on all that coffee. It was eating his stomach lining.

"I'm surprised you aren't drenched," Sheppard whispered conspiratorially. They'd fallen behind Teyla and Ronon, or rather Rodney had fallen back while the others had cavorted ahead. He didn't feel like soaking up the atmosphere.

"What?" he retorted, thinking maybe John was getting too much sun lately. He knew that little trip they'd taken into the corona would have long-term effects, but would Carson listen to him?

John's grin widened further. "The black cloud hanging over you, Eeyore."

"Go find someone else to hover over, Christopher Robin. I think Rabbit and Tigger need you."

A hand on his arm, and John stopped both of them. The teasing took a momentary flight, and John seemed to look into Rodney with X-ray vision. "Seriously, you're off today, what's going on?"

Rodney had this thing with John. They flung insults, pushed buttons, and generally acted like nine-year-old boys. Sheppard's question was too grown up for their relationship, and McKay rolled his eyes to disperse the effects. "I worked till almost four in the morning on a useless task, and the only thing I got for my efforts was a backache. I tried to get 'off' but Carson wasn't buying it."

The lips on John's face curved into a terribly large grin. Rodney reviewed what he'd said, and groaned, stalking away from Sheppard and snapping, "Grow up, Colonel."

The rest of the hike to the village was fairly easy, as in, John left Rodney to suffer in silence, something he wasn't used to doing, and he almost purposefully ran into Sheppard just to get an outlet for his mood. Ronon and Teyla took turns watching him, which only made his irritation grow to new heights. When they were greeted by the village council, Rodney was sweaty, and found he really should've convinced Carson into giving him more than just Motrin because the back ache was returning with the niggling sharpness that promised hell was going to be paid its due before the day was up.

The village was on a bluff, overlooking a turquoise ocean. The trees faded to prairie, and there were paths down the bluff that led into sand dunes and shore, where the waves crashed against the beachhead. Off in the distance, Rodney saw gathering dark clouds and the water was choppy with white caps. He glared at what normally would've been a beautiful sight, but now just threatened to make his supposed black cloud physical. Bad weather was being blown in, and he wasn't inclined to stick around for it.

He turned to talk to John about the approaching bad weather, but Sheppard, Teyla and Ronon were already deep in conversation with a group of men and women from the council. The village itself wasn't as primitive as some. It reminded McKay of Quaker settlements. The town square was the focus, with buildings on the outer edges. These people had the basic level of technology to work metal and wood, and their homes were made from the vast supply of timber. He noted the doors on the nearest house were double, and to the side was a storm cellar, open now, the doors peeled back were thick, and looked solid. They had paint, and the homes were either a weathered brick red, or an equally weathered brown. Farming equipment equivalent to the pre-industrial revolution were in sheds and farm animals mooed placidly in pens and pastures. It was idyllic, and if he wasn't in a bad mood, he probably would've enjoyed it for the relaxing break that it was.

A stiff gust of wind blew up from the ocean, and Rodney's jacket flattened against his back. Deciding he really should discuss the storm with John, he headed towards the group. The villagers had laid out tables of food, and there were kids cavorting off to the side, running in sporadically to grab bits of cheese and salted meat. There were cakes, and dairy, and roasted meats along with the salted choices. Seafood, looked like lobster and fish, and clams also rested among the fare. For a minute, Rodney wanted to eat, but then the indigestion reminded him not to doing anything stupid. There was a flavored drink in pitchers. He'd stick with the drinks, and maybe the bread. Bread would be good – "Colonel, can I talk to you?" he asked, interjecting himself between Sheppard and a female council member telling him about their culture. When John shrugged in an affirmative, but didn't move, Rodney added, "Alone," and nodded his head behind him.

"What?" asked Sheppard, after moving where McKay had indicated.

Rodney thumbed over his shoulder, "See that?"

John frowned, but looked past McKay, his eyes shifting first to the water, frowning more and then lifting to the sky whereupon his face grew downright grim. "Yeah," he nodded. "How long?"

"Less than a day," guessed Rodney. "If it's a tropical storm, and moving slow, we could go on as planned. If it's stronger, moving fast, we should probably leave before morning. If we had a Jumper -"

"But we don't," John said, shutting down the train of thought. He sighed, and the hands resting irritably on his hips dropped when he lifted one to run through his hair in an attempt to ease the decision-making. They could always come back later, cut off the talks now, and take a rain check. Rodney knew the grain and Intel were important, but getting washed out to sea wasn't his idea of a good time. "We should ask them what kind of storms they typically get," John finally said. His eyes pulled away from the churning surf and locked on to the storm cellar Rodney had noticed before. "Looks like they've had them before."

"Galveston weathered storms before, too," McKay pointed out. "It's always the big ones that take you by surprise, and I don't see the NOAA out here to give fair warning."

"You think we should offer them shelter?" John asked.

McKay caught Teyla's eye, and jerked his head slightly, gesturing for her subtly to come over. "If we did that, we'd have to give up the location to the Alpha site, and I don't think Elizabeth would be thrilled, especially if this was just your typical average tropical blow."

Teyla made her excuses and joined them. "What is wrong?"

"There's a storm on the way," explained John, pointing a finger at the storm clouds. "Think you can ask Nat if this is a concern?"

Loud shouts erupted, and all three spun to look at the source. Ronon was growling, and crawling on all fours, surrounded by a group of young kids. Whenever one would get up the courage to dart in, the runner would lunge with a loud snarl, and pretend to eat the victim. The 'victim' would then be spat out, to rejoin the screeching group for another try at slaying the savage beast.

"He's insane," McKay said. "Kids give me the creeps."

"That's just because they smell the fear on you," grinned John.

Nat, the elected spokesperson for the council approached. She was an older woman, and her white hair was pulled into a large bun behind her head. Blue eyes shone out of a tanned face. These people lived and worked in the elements, and McKay wondered if they could throw in some sunscreen to sweeten the deal. "Please, Colonel, come and eat, enjoy the food we've prepared. You three are making us feel gluttonous," she teased warmly. "After we've had breakfast, we'll begin talks on our agreement."

John gave his best charming smile, and took Nat's arm in his own, looking back at Rodney. "Don't mind if we do, but, we have some questions for you."

When McKay didn't follow them, John jerked his head impatiently at Rodney, and he reluctantly left the solitude of the bluff's edge. He needed to sneak off and take some painkiller for his backache, and maybe some Tums for his indigestion. Though, if Nat confessed anything worrying about the approaching weather, they might be cutting this short and he could go back to Carson and demand the doctor take a serious look at his back. X-rays, MRI's, anything to figure out what was up. He didn't remember twisting it, sleeping on it funny, and he hadn't done anything strenuous to account for the pain he was feeling today.

While Sheppard and Teyla fixed another plate of food, Ronon let the kids feed him like he was in some kind of human petting zoo, and Rodney did snatch a few moments to down some Tylenol. He'd made an excuse that he had to drain the main line, and while John had smiled briefly and told him to hurry back, Nat had exchanged a confused look with Teyla. Rodney was relieved Sheppard didn't explain.

He returned to hear Nat assuring them that the storm was normal, common in the summer months, and the storm cellars that also served as storage for food, also protected them in the rare storm that blew hard enough to cause damage. She said in all her years there had only been one destructive storm. They'd lost crops, buildings and animals, but all the people had survived, having sought shelter down below.

John had nodded to Rodney when he got back, and raised his eyebrows to ask unspoken what he thought of the explanation. McKay didn't know, he guessed they'd have to wait and see. If the surf grew too rough, he could come out and watch to see how far the water receded to try and gauge how large of a storm surge there'd be. He wasn't a hurricane hunter, but there were clues they could look for to know if this was one of those rare devastating weather events. He'd like to think that the odds were ridiculously low, but going off past fortune, he knew they worked and lived under the incredible every day.

"What are you looking at?"

Rodney jumped, surprised by the runner. "Thought you were reenacting the Great Buffalo Hunt with the devil spawn."

Ronon grinned laconically and said, "I thought you'd be sampling every dish on the table."

The bottle of Tums pushed against McKay's leg in his pants pocket. "Later," he said. "You see that -" he pointed at the sky over the ocean.

Ronon followed his finger and shrugged, "Yeah, what about it?"

"That could be bad," Rodney said with only a mild amount of condescension. "Very bad."

Dex wasn't a man of science, and he wasn't really a man of many worries, either. Rodney had learned a lot about what made the runner tick in the missions they'd already been on together. Ronon kept a simple view on events, and his solutions stayed pretty simple, too. If it was a problem, shoot it. If you needed something, get it. If it was food, eat it. One of the reasons why McKay liked him, even if he wasn't technologically inclined. But looking at the unconcerned features now, Rodney growled, "Never mind. It's probably nothing, anyway."

"If you're worrying about it, I doubt it's nothing," Ronon announced, before moving to Sheppard and mumbling something. John nodded, and looked over at Rodney. McKay was kind of surprised at how Ronon's comment made him feel warm inside. The opinions of He Man shouldn't matter. Pathetic. Still…

The day wore on, and Rodney's backache finally alleviated, only to take up residence in his stomach. The indigestion began to resemble more of a punch in the middle of his stomach, right at his belly button, and he wondered who he'd pissed off above to have to spend a trip like this feeling like shit. Under normal circumstances, this would have been even nice enough for him to forget the experiments waiting in his lab, and projects waiting for his approval by his science team.

He participated enough to keep from standing out like a sore thumb, and when the kids tried to gang up and rope him into a game of tug-of-war, he got Ronon to take his spot. It was pretty funny. Ronon on one side, with every kid in the village except the ones too small to grab and pull. He wasn't even surprised when Ronon won. The man was an ox. Then Dex threw the next round, and 'tied' for the third. Rodney was surprised to find that he was as see-through as cling wrap. Sappy. Letting kids win only gave them the impression they were better than they were. McKay had beat the pants off his niece in Chess, Checkers and Guess Who? The only game the kid had won was Candyland, and that's because it's completely a game of chance. Rip off. His niece had been too old for it, anyway, and she had picked it just because she knew she stood a chance of winning.

When John had forced food on his plate, McKay had drank, and slipped the rest secretly to the cows closest. What the cows didn't eat, the birds did, and the bugs. He'd stared for what had to have been an hour at a group of ants trying to carry half a breadstick to their mound. The weather hadn't worsened noticeably, but the darkness on the horizon deepened, and McKay couldn't shake the fear that when this storm did break, it was going to be a big one. Sheppard asked him if he thought they should cut it short when late afternoon arrived, but Rodney had gone against his personal feelings and agreed with the villagers. The storm was slow moving and probably wouldn't arrive till after they left.

Night arrived, and they gathered in a home that was being turned over to them for their stay. The loft above had four pallets made up and ready for them, while down below, they gathered in wooden chairs around a wooden table that McKay thought looked like something out of a frontier museum. Plastic, what he wouldn't give to see some plastic, but that polymer was a product of industrial processes, and not something that was going to be found here.

The fireplace on the rear wall ate the shadows in the room. The warm temperatures meant a fire wasn't needed, though McKay thought the air had developed a bit of a chill to it. The ache in his gut hadn't let up, but he'd accepted a cup of Nat's homemade brew anyway, and sipped it, surprised that it helped his pain slightly.

"The Wraith haven't been here for at least fifty years," Nat said softly. She was seated on a chair with a homemade cushion, her old bones needing the padding. Her eyes shifted to catch everyone in the room, which consisted of the eight council members and the four people from Atlantis. McKay was sitting by Ronon and Jace, Nat's husband and another member on the council, equally aged and full of the wisdom they valued, but wouldn't do them any good when the Wraith did come. "I was ten the last time. Our village was further inland then, among the trees because we thought it would keep us safe." She sipped her tea and smiled tiredly. "We didn't know nothing can keep you safe. The survivors moved here, needing the distance, and we've waited for them to come again."

Teyla's hand found Nat's, and she smiled kindly at the old woman. "Have you talked with others who come to trade? Have they seen Wraith?"

"Not many people arrive for trade anymore, Teyla," Jace explained. "The few that do, we haven't seen them again. The last was four months ago. A group of six from Tarderia. They said they'd be back when the moon was full again, for us, that's forty days, but they didn't return." Jace nodded at Rodney. They'd discussed earlier how long a day was here, and a month. Civilizations created their own calendars to tell time based on their celestial bodies. Here, a month was forty days, and they had adjusted by taking one month like Earth where it was shorter to account for the fraction of time that existed with orbits, and a day was roughly twenty-eight hours.

"Do your people have any means of defense?" Ronon asked.

Felgan, another council member, in his middle years, shook his head. "Just the cross bows we showed you that we use for hunting. The Wraith are advanced beyond our ability to hurt them."

"Escape plans?" John looked out the window. Shutters were open, letting the night breeze blow in, and a sudden gust had caused one of the shutters to slam shut. Frowning, his eyes found Rodney's and McKay could only shake his head. He hadn't looked at the water in a couple of hours. From the sounds outside, though, things were picking up.

"We have several," another woman member admitted. "But their ships find us anyway."

All around the faces in the room, McKay saw one emotion reflected. Hopelessness - over staying alive when the Wraith showed. And the real bitch was, they had nothing to offer these people that could make a damn bit of difference.

As the evening waned, John grew quieter, matching Rodney's taciturn behavior. Rodney knew his was from the indigestion from hell, but wondered what was causing John's. Teyla and Ronon even struck him as unusually subdued. The howling wind only lent weight to the heavy atmosphere in the A-frame home, and when Nat seemed to realize it was time to end for the night, McKay was relieved.

When they left, Rodney waved and called, "Sure you don't want to stay till the sun rises?"

Sheppard sent him a disgruntled look before pasting a cheery smile and waving at Nat's confused look, and quickly shutting the door. Once it was latched, he turned, and leaned against it, groaning.

Alarmed, Rodney looked worriedly at him, realizing that John looked pale. "What's wrong?" he asked. Sheppard lifted his eyes and Rodney saw the glassiness brought on by a fever. "You're sick!" he accused. He moved forward, wincing at the ache in his stomach exacerbated by the movement. He put a hand on John's forehead and felt the warmth. A fever, but not high.

John pushed McKay's hand away, and straightened, slowly. "I'm fine, just – sore. Maybe a virus or something," he allowed as he took steps toward the ladder leading to the sleeping loft. "We'll go back in the morning and Beckett can make it all better."

He said the last with such a wishful voice, that Rodney worried even more, but when he realized that Teyla and Ronon were still sitting, and not concerned about John, he turned on them, ready to ask if they cared that John was sick or were they just too bored by the issue at hand to comment. That was, until he saw their equally worried faces, and something else – "No," he whined. "No no no no! Do not tell me you're sick, too." Jesus, they could be looking at some kind of disease or plague from this world, and that would just completely suck…and God was he saying that a lot since he'd woken up this morning. He walked over to Ronon, and pulled on the runner's eyelids, moving his hand to Ronon's forehead, and confirmed that he was sick. Teyla leaned away and said wearily, "You do not need to check, Rodney. I am afraid I am also feeling…unwell."

"Sheppard," panicked, McKay called, because John had already gone up into the loft. That was a bad sign. Very bad sign.

"What?"

The reply was mostly drowned out by the wind and driving rains that had begun less than an hour ago. McKay looked at Ronon and Teyla, then back to the ladder. Suddenly, he realized he hadn't even stopped to think of himself. Was he burning up already, or was he going to be the last one to succumb to some alien flesh eating disease? He asked Ronon, "Do I have a fever? Oh, God, I knew I should've stayed in bed this morning. I didn't feel good to begin with, and -" during his ranting, Ronon felt McKay's head and pulled his hand back. "Well? Dying here," Rodney pointed out reasonably, to him, at least.

"I don't think so," Ronon said with a shrug. "But I'm not a thermometer, McKay."

Teyla stood, slowly. "Ronon's right. We need the medkit; if anything, we can take medicine to help with the fever and aches." The shutters banged angrily together, and one blew open with a rush of wet air. Teyla was closest, and she hurried painfully to the window and re-latched the shutters. "I do not think it is safe to go for help."

John had never come looking to find out what Rodney wanted, and since their backpacks were up in the loft, he figured he might as well climb up and discuss their options. Their hideously few, painfully limited, options. He lifted his foot to the bottom rung, and winced at the pain in his belly. Maybe he was the first to suffer from this alien plague, and the backache had gone, only to be replaced by this virus that was going to kill them all horribly. Teyla and Ronon had gotten up to follow, and knowing he was the locomotive of this pitiful train up the ladder, he forced his feet to move. Every step on the rungs made the pain ricochet inside, but fortunately, it was a short climb.

The loft had plenty of room, but the ceiling was low even at the tallest middle location, and McKay had to stoop to walk, and surprisingly, his stomach felt better as he moved towards the pallet where John was laying. Sheppard hadn't even taken off his boots, and Rodney felt the worry surge harder. "I figured you weren't a sleep in the nude kind of guy but boots is a little extreme," he cracked out of his fear.

"I'm dying, Rodney, and you're criticizing my sleepwear?" The reply was whispered, and taut with pain, causing McKay to kneel by John's head. He swallowed because the colonel really looked like hell.

"You're not really dying," he said loudly. "That's just…exaggeration, hypochondria, and who's the drama king of the team, now?" Rodney winced, God did he say stupid things when he was nervous, and looking at Sheppard now, he was really nervous. "This might be a bad time to bring it up," he looked again at John and amended, "No, this is a really bad time, but you're not the only one sick. Ronon and Teyla, for sure, and I've felt off since we got here."

John had been lying on his side, facing the rafters where the ceiling of the room below met with the roof, and now he rolled to where he could look at Rodney. "You were sick earlier and didn't say anything?" He found enough strength to get enough force in the words that McKay felt them.

"I thought I'd had too much coffee, and not enough sleep," he said defensively. "How was I to know this was Spanish Flu planet?"

Closing his eyes, John inhaled deeply, and then exhaled. When he repeated it again, Rodney prodded, "Sheppard?"

That's when John's eyes shot open and he grunted, getting on his hands and knees and lurching for the ladder. Ronon and Teyla were there, and together, they helped John down. McKay rushed after, ignoring his own aches, to find John heaving into the cast iron sink in the open kitchen.

All in all, this was pretty bad, and McKay was sharing moments of panic with Ronon and Teyla, when knocking on the door drew him over to unlatch it, and see who it was. Felgan was wearing a blanket, and the wind tore into him, rocking him back and forth like a fettered tree limb. "We need to seek shelter below!" the man screamed over the noise from outside. "The storm is growing dangerous!"

Rodney closed his eyes, and looked upward. "You just had to, didn't you? It isn't enough that Sheppard is puking, and we're all sick, but you're going to wipe out the village with an 'end of days' storm, and kill any hope we have of getting help."

"Doctor McKay?" Felgan shouted.

He reopened his eyes and smiled eerily. "Fine," he said. "We'll go."

The villager peered in the room and saw John leaning heavily over the sink, still battling with last bouts of gagging and he faced Rodney alarmed, "He is sick?"

"Yes, he's sick, Felgan." Rodney pushed the man back outside. "We'll go to the storm cellar," he shouted, then closed the door. Turning back, his face dripping from blown rain, he was about to tell Teyla to get their backpacks, but she was already moving to the ladder. Ronon was still with John, and he shouted for Teyla to throw down blankets. When she did, he got one and draped it around John's shoulders. Then he handed one to McKay. "Let's get Sheppard down first. Teyla and I will get the supplies."

Rodney nodded. Thank God Teyla and Ronon weren't worsening as fast as John. The pain in his stomach had momentarily disappeared, and he hoped maybe it was just a passing sour stomach, like he'd originally thought, and not whatever was affecting the rest of them.

The storm was bending trees almost in half, and fascinated, Rodney paused at the threshold of the storm shelter to listen to the crashing of the surf not far below. The worry of a high storm surge made him pale, because there was nowhere else to go. The bluff was a good four to five feet high, sturdy, and the village was about a hundred yards from the nearest edge. They'd have to pray, and hope for the best, because walking to the gate in these conditions would be suicide.

"McKay," shouted Ronon, already halfway into the cellar.

"I'm coming!" He took the steep steps to the bottom and was relieved to see that they'd floored it with planks, and there were already some basic supplies. A lantern, some blankets, and burlap bags of grain to lean against. Ronon laid Sheppard gently against one of those large bags, and John nodded his thanks.

Ronon paused on the return trip, grabbing Rodney's arm and asking, "You okay?" When McKay said he was, the runner climbed up to go help Teyla. Rodney unfolded a blanket next to John and nudged him, "Roll a little."

John didn't even ask why, just rolled to his right, onto the blanket. He crab walked his back up against the grain sack till he was sitting half upright, and stared miserably at McKay. "Rodney, I feel like shit."

For Sheppard to admit it so openly…crap. Rodney plopped down beside John, almost yelping out loud when the pain in his abdomen reared again. "Aside from the non-medical, and entirely unhelpful 'I feel like shit', what are your symptoms?"

"Fever, headache, my gut feels like a punching bag that's been abused, and…oh, God," John stopped, and leaned up, scrambling for something…

… "Christ, you're going to puke again, aren't you?" Rodney spluttered. He moved quickly, searching for something to use. In the corner was a basin, and Rodney dumped out the onions that had been taking up residence, and rushed it back for John. As soon as it was under, John started throwing up. McKay figured the smell in the bin probably hadn't helped any.

Rodney didn't know what to do to help John. They'd never been in a situation like this before. Whenever one of them had been sick, or injured, there'd always been Carson to take over, and his medical staff to deal with this kind of…disgusting…stuff. He didn't do bodily fluids and comfort…oh, God, John looked incredibly pitiful, all hunched over and gagging, and Rodney really felt an unwelcome pain of sympathy in his own gut. He scooted closer, and for a moment, when the smell really almost caused a horrible, terrible kind of chain reaction, he turned his face away and stretched his mouth into a yawn and tried to keep it in, before he could turn back and rub John's shoulders.

After the final gagging subsided, Rodney took the basin away and tucked it near the stairs. Teyla and Ronon were coming soon, and they could get it up and dump it, and then they'd need water. Maybe there was another basin – when Rodney turned back, he was surprised to find John watching him. "What?" he asked.

"You're actually…helping," John mumbled. He let his head fall against the bag of grain.

McKay sniffed. "Thanks…I think." Yuck, he shouldn't have sniffed. Just then, the cellar doors were thrown open, or partly blown open, either one, Ronon peered down, "Watch out!" he shouted, and then backpacks dropped down, falling with loud thumps on the floor.

"We need water," Rodney shouted.

Ronon jerked his head, acknowledging the need, and disappeared. Teyla followed the bags down, climbing until she was there by him, and when Rodney stared his question, she shook her head gently. He'd asked without words how she was doing, and she'd answered equally silent 'not so good'. Sighing, he helped her over to lie near John. The basin – shit. He headed back to the ladder, lifted the basin, and climbed, thanking God it was deep enough to not splash as he went.

The hurricane force winds practically grabbed the thing from his hands, and only a last minute clutching kept it from being blown away. He leaned up enough to dump the contents in the rain soaked ground. There wouldn't be any way to rinse it out, but at least it wasn't full now. He began to withdraw when Ronon came stumbling up, leaning so far forward into the wind to keep from being blown back, that he was almost horizontal.

When Rodney pulled back, Ronon came in, and together they managed to get down. Rodney put his empty basin to the side, and helped Ronon lower the semi-full bucket of water without spilling more. "How bad?" asked Rodney.

"Bad," Ronon answered shortly, before pushing past McKay and dropping near Teyla.

McKay hadn't clarified that he meant the weather, but looking at Ronon now, he was pretty sure the runner was referring to his condition. Aside from the dull ache in his stomach, Rodney seemed to be doing the best out of all of them, and looking at the sweaty, pallid group on the ground, he had a sinking feeling that storm aside, this was going to be a very long night.

He pulled two more blankets out and unfolded them, helping Ronon and Teyla get more comfortable. After he was finished, he eyed the three critically and asked, "Better?"

John grunted, Teyla nodded and Ronon stared uncomprehendingly at him. Figuring two out of three wasn't bad, Rodney turned to their backpacks, found Teyla's and pulled the medkit free of the material. He found the Tylenol quickly, and downed three, because his stomach hurt.

"You going to share that, McKay?" John called, and his attempt at sarcasm fell flat when he only managed to sound like a pitiful child wanting more ice cream.

"Give me a minute," he mumbled around the water in his mouth. Okay, Tylenol, good, unless it came back up – Rodney looked uneasily at Sheppard again, and looked back at the supplies…suppositories, oh, God, shoot him now. There were boundaries for friendship, and he was pretty darn sure that was right there on the edge. He set the suppositories to the side and vowed pills first. Then, for the nausea, there was some Compazine, so, good, he could give that and see if it helped. This nurse thing, it wasn't so bad…

"Rodney," Teyla called sharply.

He looked up, and saw her struggling to get up, and he knew. Rodney spun for the basin, and got it under her just in time. They say you never know a person until you see them with a hundred and three temperature, throwing up, and sick as a dog. As McKay awkwardly crouched by Teyla, and tried to help her get through this, he looked miserably up at the ceiling. He didn't want to know any of his team like this, he really didn't. He was perfectly fine keeping it superficial.

She leaned back, signaling that she was finished, and he could tell by the disgusted twist of her lips that she wanted water to rinse with. "Fine, I'll get it. I'll just grow another set of arms and -"

"Rodney," she interrupted. "Thank you." She stressed the thank part, and he got all hot and flushed from a surge of guilt.

"Don't thank me," he muttered. He got her water, handed John two Tylenols and one Compazine, before doing the same for Ronon, but when Teyla raised an eyebrow he shook his head. "They say you're supposed to wait twenty minutes after…upchucking…to try and keep anything down. Give your stomach time to settle." She didn't seem convinced, and maybe Rodney wasn't either, because he sighed, and handed her the same pills with a warning that if they did come back up, he didn't want to know about it.

"I think you're the only one who's going to know before the rest of us," John pointed out. He peered through lidded eyes and asked, "How are you feeling, anyway?" His words were tired, rough, and somewhat slurred around the edges, but Rodney got it.

"Like the walking dead," Rodney replied irritably. When John's lidded eyes did their best attempt at worry, he turned away. The truth wasn't something he wanted to lay on Sheppard right now, because right now Sheppard needed to believe someone was going to be able to function and care for the ones that couldn't, but Rodney was beginning to get really worried that he wasn't going to last. His pain had shifted, traveling to a spot on his lower right side, and he was pretty sure it wasn't that hot down here. And if one more person threw up next to him, he'd be joining them.

Wait a minute? Was he being selfless? Hiding the truth to keep the others from being worried? God, he must be sicker than he realized… "We need to get someone back to the gate," he declared, turning back to look at the three of them.

"Unless you think crawling is going to work, it's not gonna happen," drawled Ronon. The runner hadn't even opened his eyes, he was holding on to the edge of the blanket, white-knuckled grip, and focusing on something internal that Rodney couldn't see. The normally tan face was a sickly grey, and he could see lines of pain etched deep in the man's forehead.

"In this wind, crawling is all we could hope for anyway." Rodney hated to admit it, but the truth was that they were stuck – he was stuck, and as the pain gave a sharp reminder, he worried he wouldn't be able to hold it together through the night.

Twenty minutes later, as he held John's shoulder through another bout of vomiting, he knew he wasn't going to be able to hold it together through the night. He got up to carry the basin to the stairs, when the pain in his abdomen made him double over. "Ouch," he yelped. God that hurt. What the hell was up with this virus, anyway, that he was taking the slow ride to hell and John was taking the express.

Rodney got the basin emptied, and stumbled back to take a spot between John and Teyla. Teyla and Ronon had slipped into restless slumber, both clearly feverish and in pain, but at least while they were sleeping, they weren't puking, but John – John was another matter. Staring at Sheppard's features, twisted in pain, McKay was really worried. It wasn't fair he had to worry about someone else when he needed to worry about himself.

"You okay?" John mumbled tiredly.

John's fever had risen, and he was lethargic, his words often slurred so much now that it was hard for McKay to decipher, but it was John. He could probably decipher the man if he was underwater, in a wet suit, and possibly paralyzed. It was the eyes. John's eyes told Rodney a lot. And right now they were heavy with pain, thick with worry, and liquid from the heat. "I'm surrounded by illness," Rodney replied. "In my worst nightmares, I didn't even come up with this." He shifted, and hunched over more trying to ease the pain in his gut. "Do you realize I'm a germophobe?" When he noticed that John was still with him he added soberly, "I'm serious. I've always had a problem with people being sick near me. There are more viruses than humans." He was prone to exaggeration when he was worried. So, there probably weren't more viruses than humans…maybe. He looked over again at John and saw those eyes fixed on him, narrowed, and showing a moment of lucidity. "What?"

"You're not sick like us," John slurred. He lifted a hand and clumsily pointed at McKay's side. "It hurts there?" He pointed to his own head and said, "It hurts here." His eyes slid closed and he shifted his body and swore with a lot of feeling, "It hurts a lot here."

"What about here," Rodney asked pointing at John's middle.

Sheppard nodded, but said, "Not as much, though. Cramps…sore from throwing up. Not like you, bending over, and you said you felt off from the beginning."

"I had a back ache before we left -"

"Low?" interrupted John.

"Actually, yes." Rodney perked up, and focused on his middle, now his right…

"Shit, McKay – your appendix, do you still have it?" Sheppard forced the question out between teeth gritted against his own pain.

Rodney's eyes grew to a size disproportionate to his head, they had to have, because pieces clicked and he banged his head down so hard in that one moment of clarity, that he wound up hitting it on his knee and OW! "I can't believe how stupid I am. I saw you three sick, I made an assumption and even when there were differences I thought…Oh, God, my appendix is going to rupture, Sheppard. I'm going to get peritonitis and die in this stupid cellar while you three throw up in your blankets, and they'll find four husks when the storm ends."

"Rodney, you are not going to die," Teyla said calmly, the noise of his panic having roused her apparently. She had rolled to her side, and was curled into a fetal position, trying to ease her own abdominal pain. "The storm will not last forever. Ronon or I will go and get help."

McKay looked at Teyla, and at Ronon, and snorted. "Back to the crawling, not a good idea. I'll go."

"Nobody is going anywhere," insisted John. The storm was raging overhead; they could all hear the screams of wind and snarls of rain. The cellar doors would quiet, and they'd begin to feel it was passing, until moments later, the doors would rattle so hard Rodney thought they'd been transported into a horror movie and something terrible was going to rip them off the hinges and come down after them.

The conversation took all the energy Sheppard had, and Rodney watched as John groaned against another wave of pain – in his head, or stomach. Ronon was still stubbornly sleeping, but Teyla was watching them with a face heavy with worry. Sighing, because he felt an inordinate need to reassure her, he said, "It's not bad yet. I'll be fine till morning." Inside he was denying it with panicked shouts. The pain in his lower right was dull, and persistent. If he kept his knees drawn up against his middle, it helped, but he was beginning to feel more of the sour stomach and generally like hell.

Another sharp groan from John, and Rodney looked away from Teyla to him. He was trying to get up. "Sick," he slurred.

McKay swore because now he had to rush over to retrieve the basin he'd left at the foot of the stairs. He hurried back as fast as his stomach allowed and Sheppard leaned over with some help, and started retching. Rodney took every excuse to keep himself bent as close to a right angle as possible, and this time it was to rub concentric circles on Sheppard's back as John gagged up pitiful amounts of bile. The episode seemed to go on forever, and Rodney wasn't sure who was more relieved when it finally abated; him or John.

McKay took the basin, and helped John lie back. Once he was settled against the grain bag, Rodney carried the basin over, staring up at the stairs. He knew between the pain in his side and the storm, he wasn't getting this up to empty anymore. Shuddering, Rodney swore, "I don't know what, I don't know how, but this…this is serious 'owe me' factor." He set John's basin down at the base of the stairs and thanked God that at least the cracks in the doors above did allow for some meager amount of ventilation. With another thought, he grabbed an empty burlap bag, and covered the basin with it.

He dug out a cup from their field kits, and looked for a rag. After emptying the contents of all their packs, he turned to look at John and Teyla. "We don't have rags? Simple strips of cloth to wash with?"

"There's wipes," John whispered, his eyes closed.

"Wipes don't 'soothe the fevered brow'," Rodney snapped, crossly. Here he was, trying to do something to help ease John's misery, and he was stopped by a stupid oversight in what the military thought essential for field outings. Well, he'd see that got changed when they got back. Washcloths would become standard issue, period. Frowning at his shirt and idea came to mind and he dug in and found an extra shirt in Ronon's bag, quickly tearing it into strips, with the help of the scissors from the medkit. He hoped it wasn't Ronon's favorite.

Taking the thermometer, Rodney carried the strips of cloth, and water, while hunching over because the pain was getting worse, back to John's side. He wet the cloth, and wiped John's face, surprised when Sheppard turned his face into the coolness. "I didn't know you had it in you," John said, his voice hoarse, his breath even worse.

Rodney pulled back. "Breath mints, Sheppard. You need a lot of them." But he kept wiping until John seemed somewhat eased. He took John's temperature and was silently horrified at the number. So much for low grade. "How do you feel now?" Rodney asked.

"Stiff," John replied, his voice weak. "Things hurt…a lot."

"Stiff how? What hurts?"

Unfortunately, John had given in to his body's demands, and drifted off in between thoughts. Rodney pushed a hand against his own source of pain, and took just a minute to worry about himself. Maybe more than a minute. They were so screwed. After ten minutes, possibly fifteen, McKay turned to Teyla. "How bad?" he asked. At least he knew she'd be honest and not try to make things sound better than they were, like some certain Air Force Colonels.

She surprised him by reaching for his hand, and gripping it. Her skin was dry and leathery, and he vowed to get her water. "I have not felt this bad since I was a child and suffered from heart fever."

"Heart fever?" he echoed. "That sounds…bad."

"It is almost always fatal." She released his hand, and rolled a little on her back.

Rodney swallowed; she had to say that word. Fatal. "What if this is fatal?" he said. "Seriously – all three of you are taken out, and I'm the only one not affected, except my body goes and does a stupid silly thing like reject it's own appendix and -" Oh, for… "Food poisoning," he swore. At Teyla's confused face, he explained, "You three ate, liberally. I didn't because I wasn't hungry. It's just -" he laughed bitterly, "incredibly bad luck." He shook his head, because in the scheme of things, this was beginning to get ridiculous.

Focusing again on Teyla, he realized her eyes were even more sunken then he remembered. Dehydration, damn. He had to try and keep them hydrated. Rodney reached for the water, yelping as he forgot about his own problem because of the adrenaline rush he'd experienced when he'd realized they weren't suffering from an alien plague that might eat their flesh, or melt their brains. Cradling a hand against his stomach, McKay got the water, and tried to help Teyla sit. She finally got up enough to drink and as she started to gulp, he yanked it back, scolding, "A little, Teyla, not the whole lake, or it'll just come up again."

"Thank you," she whispered. Her eyes shifted to John, and Rodney followed. Sheppard was shivering. Rodney closed his eyes again, feeling his knees digging into his belly. When he opened them again, Teyla touched his knee. "He is worse than Ronon and I."

"I know," Rodney agreed. "Maybe he ate more of the food that was contaminated, or maybe it's because he's not from this galaxy…" he snorted harshly. "There are more variables here, and that's going on the hope that my assumption of food poisoning is right."

"Your…assumptions…" Teyla stopped and coughed. Rodney helped her take another small sip. When she was finished, she nodded tiredly in thanks. "They usually are."

Rodney could only sit miserably by her. She was winding down, out of energy, and he let her drift back into sleep where she didn't have to feel the pain in her body, or feel the fear he felt for all of them. Maybe Ronon would be capable of going for help? But even as he thought it, the cellar doors groaned, and rose until the latch stopped them, and then fell back with an angry crash. Son of a bitch.

He must have dozed, because he was woken by a grunted, "McKay!" He jerked, sending a wave of agony through his side, and when he'd managed to breathe rapidly till he could figure out what had happened, Ronon was calling for him again. The runner was sitting, holding his stomach and leaning over in a position that told Rodney all he needed to know. Hunched, Rodney scrambled for another basin, dumping out its contents and bringing it back, handing it to Ronon. The man took it, and fought it off for moments more, before physical need overtook personal reluctance, and he threw up…a lot. Rodney's guts clenched in sympathetic need, and he spun around, quickly, before he tried to tug the basin over for himself. This was gross. So God damn gross, and when he got back, he was going to apologize to Carson, to the nurses, to anyone who had ever cleaned up after him when he was sick.

When Ronon was finished, Rodney went through the motions of stashing the basin by the other, and when he went to wipe the runner's face, the strong hand latched on to his wrist and Ronon grunted, "No." He took the rag from McKay's hand, and stared at it, before realization dawned on his face. "My shirt, McKay! You ripped my shirt?"

"Sheppard needed it," Rodney quickly explained. Always keep an Ace in the hole.

Ronon stared another angry moment at the cloth, then at Rodney, before his eyes traveled over to Sheppard, and Rodney found himself thankful for the first time that John looked so God damn horrible, because Ronon pursed his lips together, wanting to stay angry, but no one could deny that John needed it. "You owe me another one," Ronon finally relented. "From Sateda."

"How the hell am I supposed to get another shirt from a dead world?" he spluttered, forgetting that the dead world in question was Ronon's home, and just maybe, there might have been a need for tact somewhere in his response.

"You're smart, McKay," Ronon replied evenly. He used the cloth to wipe his face, and took the cup of water from Rodney, rinsing, and spitting to the side, before taking another small drink.

"Apparently not," he replied derisively. If Rodney had been smart, he would've made sure Carson kept him on Atlantis, and he wouldn't be here suffering from appendicitis. He would be back in the infirmary, in a nice cozy bed, post-anesthetic haze, with a scar to show for sympathy. Instead, he was playing nursemaid to three sick teammates that would've been here alone…suffering alone…this conscience shit sucked. Completely. Self-sacrificing was not a character trait he admired. Shaking it off, Rodney looked sideways at Ronon, "Please tell me you don't feel like you're dying."

When Ronon didn't reply, Rodney prompted, "Hello, talking to you."

"You said not to tell you."

"Great," exclaimed McKay. "Just…great. You're right. Don't tell me." He got up, yelped, leaned over, and shuffled to check on John.

John was sleeping, his fever holding at a balmy hundred and three. Rodney knew Ronon was awake, and wanted to try and keep the runner company, because talking might keep both their minds off of how crappy they felt, but he told himself he'd move in a second, and the second turned into more than one, and a minute went by and finally he just accepted that he wasn't moving again any time soon, and let his eyes close…just for a second.

He was woken by someone calling his name…no, that wasn't a person. The house above them…noise, loud. Rodney fumbled in the dim light, trying to figure out what was going on even while his body begged him to stay curled up. The loud cracks and booms above, and Rodney finally realized the house was being ripped apart. Feeling utterly defeated by the circumstances, Rodney blinked at the roughly hewn boards on the floor of their shelter.

When the destruction above eased, it grew quiet, aside from the rattling of the storm doors, and Rodney listened for more. All he heard were the harsh inhalations of his teammates. Groaning at the focus of his pain, Rodney tried to get to his knees and check on John. It hurt more than anything he could remember hurting, but he managed. McKay wasn't sure about the passage of time, but when he leaned over Sheppard, he didn't like what he saw. At some point, Sheppard must have woken up and shoved the blanket off. His uniform was damp in places from sweat, and his breathing was harsh and labored.

"John," Rodney whispered, shaking the man's arm gently. "Wake up." He knew he should get John to take some more Tylenol and Compazine. When Sheppard didn't do more than flinch, Rodney tried again, shaking harder and calling louder. This time John didn't even flinch. Crap.

"What's wrong?" Ronon called across the room. His voice was thick with discomfort but also concern.

Rodney looked over, and wasn't surprised to see the worry on the runner's face as well. Ronon, for all his bluster and bulk, had been surprisingly quick to integrate into the team, and he'd given himself over with more trust then McKay thought the man had left after what he'd been through. Ronon wasn't a rocket scientist, but he wasn't someone Rodney would want to come up against in a dark alley, and if you were on his team, you were his priority if things got sticky. Something Rodney rather liked in a teammate. Even if he had occasionally said 'down, boy' or some such equivalent when Ronon took the protection thing too far.

"Sheppard's not waking up," Rodney said. "We need help. Even if this is food poisoning, it could be some kind of mutated alien variety, and it's eating his intestines while we speak." Frustrated, McKay got to his feet, always keeping hunched. He felt sure if he tried to stand straight, he'd break in two.

The runner stared at Rodney, then John, and lastly, Teyla. His face blanked, and determination replaced the concern. He started to lurch to his feet, got to his knees, groaned, stopped and growled, "Basin -" with an edge of desperation.

Ten minutes later, Rodney scolded Ronon, "That was stupid. Stay down; you're in no shape to go anywhere."

"And you are?" retorted Ronon angrily.

Rodney could sympathize with Ronon's frustration. They felt helpless, needing to get help, but none of them were in any condition, and just when McKay was going to go anyway, there was another loud cracking sound above and more splintering echoed among the wind. "This is ridiculous!" he swore. "How can such a crazy situation happen to anyone but us? Did Sheppard piss off some voodoo priestess on another planet, and we just missed it? The odds of this set of circumstances -"

"McKay."

" – they've got to be in the millions to one, possibly billions. A hurricane on a world we just happen to be visiting, food poisoning, and appendicitis, striking all at once, it's -"

"Shut up," Ronon growled.

"No," snarled McKay. "I'm not going to 'shut up'; I'm going to bitch, because it's what I do best. I think clearly when I'm whining, loudly, and complaining and -"

"You have any ideas yet?" interrupted Ronon. He was resting loosely against the bag of grain, and looked ready to throw up, again.

Rodney opened his mouth to say of course. He'd come up with a brilliant solution. "No," he admitted, deflated. "I've got nothing." Disgusted, he eased himself down by John again, looking over at Teyla to make sure she was still alive. The rise and fall of her chest assured McKay she was, but her face was covered in a sheen of sweat, and every now and then her face twisted in spasms of pain.

His tirade used up more energy than he had to spare, and McKay found himself sitting, again with knees drawn up against his chest, because it was the only position he found bearable. Ronon had lapsed into silence, and at some point, Rodney caught the cadence of his breathing and knew the runner was back in an illness-induced sleep. Teyla was still out, like John, and he was growing more and more convinced that if he waited till the storm abated, there wouldn't be anyone left to rescue.

He'd never been good with illnesses. To Rodney, if you felt like you were dying, you probably were. He knew Carson repeatedly assured patients that the virus wasn't fatal, the condition only felt like it was. He'd gone for help with an ingrown nail once, and a petite sergeant had been suffering from a particularly virulent stomach bug. McKay had veered as far away from her as possible, but listening to her moan and retch, he'd shuddered and told Carson to do something. When the woman had also begged for help in between vomiting episodes, Rodney had thought she wouldn't make it through the day. She had, obviously, but it just proved to McKay that avoiding the medical profession had been one of his better career choices.

"R'dney…"

He bolted from his curled position, swearing at the pain, but shoving it aside to focus on John. At least, he tried. Sheppard's hazel eyes were barely open, and they were confused by his high fever. McKay had tried to get John to take some more Tylenol, but hadn't been able to rouse him enough to swallow anything but dribbles of water. "Hey." Rodney hated how quiet and caring that came out. He didn't want to make John feel even more like he was wearing a poster saying 'dead man dying here, walk and talk softly'. But he had a hunch, down deep, that it was exactly what was happening, and he couldn't make his mind disregard his gut…in more ways than one.

John licked dry, cracked lips and fumbled for McKay's hand. When he tried to move, all he managed was to slip a little on his back. "Thanks," Sheppard whispered.

"No," Rodney snapped. "Don't thank me. This isn't some deathbed confession about how great it's been." A hysteric laugh broke through. "And honestly, it hasn't been that great, so don't. Just…stop."

The grip wasn't strong at all. In fact, it was so weak, it was barely there. If this was food poisoning, it was killing Sheppard. Rodney knew it, could see it in the eyes barely able to focus, on the pale, sweat-soaked body, and the painful grunts that crossed John's face periodically.

But Sheppard pulled a surprise on him, chuckling weakly, and shaking his head before wincing at the pain it caused. "For helping," he explained with slurred words. He found strength, and tightened his hand in McKay's. "I'll be okay."

Rodney was the one this time to deny the words. "No," he declared. "You're not, and you won't be." He swallowed worriedly at the fear that clawed along with the pain in his stomach. "I'm going for help," he promised aloud, before he could chicken out.

"The…hell you…will," grunted John.

"You can't stop me," Rodney said reasonably. He put John's hand back on the blanket, and got the cup of water and some Tylenol. "Swallow," he ordered. Because the cup was at his lips, John did as he was told, and then took the pills with some more water. The effort drained him, and his eyes fluttered shut, even as his mouth tried to form another order for Rodney to stay put. McKay wanted to, more than anything, but the clock had already been ticking down for all of them and he'd been stupid to put it off, but looking at the prostrated forms of the three people he'd grown to care a lot about, he worried who'd care for them when he was going for help.

The winds were still howling, but the storm doors hadn't rattled like demons were above recently, so he had the hope that at least there was a lull. The hike to the gate hadn't been that long, an hour, maybe an hour and a half. And he hadn't felt that great on the way here, so going back wouldn't be that much different.

His rationalization held until he stood up, and had to immediately bend over, breathing hard against the waves of pain. God, that hurt. "You can do this," he swore to himself. "Don't be such a wimp." That's right, berate yourself, Rodney, see how far that takes you. McKay searched for their packs, grabbed a canteen, and walked hunched over to the stairs. Looking back, he saw Teyla watching him under barely open eyes. "Rodney…"

He grinned briefly. "Be back with Carson before you know it," he said with as much oozing false assurance he could imbue in the words.

"Don't…" she called.

"I have to, Teyla," he dropped the grin. "John's barely hanging in here, and we don't know what this is. He needs help…all of you do, and as much as I never thought I was the hero type, I can make an exception at least once in my life." His voice cracked at the end, because he just hoped it wasn't the end of his life. His right side felt like fire was burning inside with the movement.

He waited for her to say more, but when she didn't, Rodney realized she'd lapsed back into sleep, or unconsciousness, either one sucked equally. If they needed help when he was gone, no one would be here. He was as scared to go as he was to stay. When this was over, and they were nice and happy, Rodney was going to exact promises that they never put him through this, ever again.

Climbing the stairs made him almost cry like a baby. The up and down motion made his side hurt ten times worse, and he threw the storm doors back, desperation to get off the stairs and on to solid ground fueling his muscles. The wind had blown into a weaker tropical storm, and whether it was the eye of the storm or the tail end, he wasn't sure. To have hit so soon, it'd had to have become a fast moving hurricane, and it was always possible the eye had passed during one of his naps below.

Like he'd guessed, the house was gone, only a few littered beams showed where the frame had once stood. All around, he could see the devastation. Trees and dead animals in the clouded night, highlighted when he scanned his flashlight all over the area. Crap, this was depressing. He supposed they'd be offering help to these people in more ways than they'd originally bargained for.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Rodney let the doors fall shut behind him, and started down the path he remembered from earlier…

The trip to the gate would be a nightmare he'd remember for a long time to come. Each step made agony shoot through his side, into his very bones it seemed. He hadn't seen any of the villagers, and if he'd thought he could convince them to go to the gate, and dial the right address and send the right code, he would've gone pounding on storm cellar doors to find a volunteer – wait, no, he couldn't, because the chance that they might screw up and dial some other address, and the fact that Atlantis wasn't supposed to exist, so what if they recognized the address as belonging to Atlantis or someone found out…God. He had to go, and it hurt. A lot.

The wind was still blowing hard enough to knock him around with the gusts. There was often debris in his way, making him step around, and there were entire trees ripped up and tossed down like matchsticks. He tried to ignore the dead carcasses of unlucky farm animals. Devastation, it was all he could think to explain what he saw.

He stumbled and fell, and cursed John, adding Carson for good measure. Maybe even Ronon and Teyla, too. Hell, why not go for an even half-dozen and blame Elizabeth and O'Neill for approving of this mission to Trouble Galaxy. When he got back up, he took a step, stopped, dropped back to his knee and threw up in the driving drops of water.

When he was done heaving, Rodney tipped his head back, into the rain, and let it rinse some of the bitter acid taste away. He slipped onto his butt, and cradled his head in his hands. The wind hurt, the rain hurt, his side hurt…and John's life depended on him getting up, and finding a way to finish this…his own personal version of the Battan Death March. Rodney knew he tended to the melodramatic, but right now, he figured he deserved some melodrama. Not that he wanted melodrama…oh, for Christ's sake.

Was he half-way there? Three quarters of the way, more depressingly, one quarter? With the darkness, the rain, the wind – he'd be lucky to make a somewhat accurate guess. And his gut was telling him it'd better be more than half-way, or he wasn't going to make it. The pain had grown to almost incapacitating levels, which probably meant his internal organ was going to explode, spewing life-threatening bacteria into his abdominal cavity, and wasn't this just a cheery way to spend the night.

Forcing his feet to get under him, Rodney stood, shaky, bent like an L-bracket, but mobile. One foot in front of the other, it was as simple as that. One, two, then do it all over again. Three and four, see there – that's progress. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single footstep, and thank God he didn't have that far to go.

The pain and counting footsteps became a monotonous lull into a semi-fugue state. Rodney stepped, counted, grunted and swore to God everyone owed him their life when he survived this. There was at least one more embarrassing event with a tree, vomit, and possibly praying. No, scratch that, there was praying; a steady litany for God to get him through this, that he'd never doubt the deity again, and please, PLEASE, let Sheppard be alive still.

He literally ran into the DHD. Staring at it confused, Rodney mumbled an apology, then came out of his dazed condition to realize he was apologizing to a machine. New lows, people, new lows. And the damn thing had caused a bloom of pain when he'd bumped into it, so if anyone owed someone an apology, the DHD owed him one.

And speaking of the DHD, Rodney needed to dial. Sheppard, Ronon and Teyla needed Carson, but he needed Carson, too. He sure hoped Carson had eaten a lot, because he'd have to spread himself thin to save them all this time…

The event horizon kawooshed, and Rodney roughly jerked his fingers through the IDC, muttering, "Painkillers, surgery, lots of drugs – in that order," to himself. He looked up, and swallowed at the distance that stretched eternally before him. Step forward, right. One, two and then repeat it all over again. He just hoped he'd get there before the thirty-eight minute window ended. Frowning, he shoved the melodrama down, and gritted his teeth. "You can do this, McKay. It's not that damn far, suck it up!"

When the cold of the wormhole finally enveloped him, Rodney wasn't sure if he was crying or laughing hysterically.

His steps out the other side stopped at two, and he crumpled to the ground. He didn't even care that shouts were coming from above, and he didn't care that it hurt probably more than ever when he hit the floor. He was here, Carson could fix it all, and they could go back and help John and Teyla and Ronon, and then they'd live happily ever after, at least, till another looming disaster made him make the same stupid promises that he'd never keep to a God he wasn't entirely sure he believed in.

"Rodney?" Elizabeth leaned into his line of sight, kneeling in the water that was pooling on the floor around him.

"The others – sick." Rodney coughed, and groaned. "Food poisoning, need Carson." He was going to die. Right here, right now.

"You've got food poisoning," she repeated, her face worried. "The others couldn't make it?"

Rodney shook his head, stupid, because it thumped on the hard floor, and he groaned more. "No no no, I've got appendicitis, they've got food poisoning," he managed to say through his dying throes, even inflecting the right amount of disdain for her missing the obvious. If she'd had a pistol, he would've pulled it, shoved it against his head and told her to end it all, now, before it found a way to get worse.

Carson and a team came thundering in, and both too soon and not soon enough, the med techs started latching on, and lifting him to a gurney. Rodney might have uttered an unmanly shriek at the movement, and felt a small sense of satisfaction when Carson reprimanded the damn ruffians. "Not a lump of coal," he moaned. "This side up, fragile, ouch," he mumbled. "God, am I delirious?"

"I think so, aye," Carson said.

His brogue was thick, and beautiful, and Rodney almost embarrassed them both by kissing him again. Instead, he fumbled till he got a hold of Carson's lab coat and pleaded, "I don't care what you do to me, just, make it stop. Seriously."

As the gurney started moving, and the pain along with it, McKay frowned at the gate and shouted, "And Sheppard, he threw up everywhere, lots of dehydration back there. Teyla and Ronon, too!" The tech shoved an oxygen mask over his face and Rodney glared through his pain, because he wasn't having trouble breathing, at least he hadn't been. He pulled it back and added loudly the other important fact, "There's a hurricane!" It was almost funny the look on the tech's face, but she shoved the mask back on with unnecessary annoyance. It was a hurricane, something that fell under the 'necessary information'.

The trip through the halls was blurry and fuzzy, and when he got into the infirmary, Doctor Biro was leaning over him and a nurse started an IV quickly while she mouthed meaningless words about a short nap, and when he woke it'd be all better. If the nurse hadn't added something making his tongue three sizes too big, he would've reminded her that post-operative pain is not 'all better', but then his mind grew as warped as his tongue, and Rodney just stopped thinking all together.

OoO

Rodney woke in recovery feeling warm, and really good. And when he said really good, yeah. Biro was there and assured him the med team had been dispatched to retrieve Sheppard and the others, and they should be back soon. He tried to ask about the hurricane, and if Carson had heard him about the food poisoning, but his eyes and mouth weren't cooperating, and he fell back asleep.

The next time he woke up, he wasn't alone in the infirmary. Three occupied beds in a row along with his own, and all three of them were asleep, with multiple IV bags dripping endlessly into the patients. Rodney tried to push himself up to see better, but a tearing pain on his right side made him stop with a hiss. Glaring, he looked under the sheet, and was rewarded by sight of a bandage. Rodney McKay, no longer with all the parts he was born with. Normally, he'd be a little annoyed to have lost part of himself, but considering the alternative, he'd make the exception.

Carson peeked out of his office, and Rodney wondered if the man had some kind of unnatural sixth sense. "You're awake."

"You're still stupidly stating the obvious."

Whenever Carson was annoyed with Rodney, but relieved he was okay, he made this face. It was a facsimile of a real smile. Kind of a 'rile'…a 'roll your eyes moment with a small pinch of a smile' to make the person think they weren't being completely humored or ridiculed. "I see you didn't suffer any brain damage," he said cheerfully.

"Brain damage?" Rodney did move that time, enough that he repeated a litany of 'ow's'.

Carson smiled smugly en route to McKay's bed, and stuck his hands into the pockets on his white lab coat. "Doctor Biro tells me you suffered some wee complications during the surgery, but, you're fine now, maybe not the picture of health yet, but well on your way, Rodney," he assured, and McKay was pretty sure Carson was enjoying this entirely too much.

Rodney's tongue tripped over the multiple questions, and he felt his face flush under the annoyance of it all. Brain damage, complications, John, Conan and Xena – he frowned heavily and looked over at Sheppard's very pale face and noticed all the beeping had to do with heart monitors, and he found the fear for his own brain taking a back seat, and Rodney didn't really like putting his needs second, so John's bucket of 'owe Rodney' was growing fuller every minute. "John?" he asked. "I trust your incompetent staff didn't cause him any brain damage?"

The smirk was back as Carson assured him, "Of course not," his eyes practically twinkled. "They like him." McKay knew that Carson had dealt with him too many times to stay around after delivering a zinger come back, and for the record, it was an unfair advantage because Rodney was still malingering in his worry over the others. "They'll be fine, Rodney," he did give McKay some peace of mind, before he left, returning to his office.

It turned out that Carson was right, and…not so right. They were okay, but they were sick. Very sick. The first day McKay was in and out, enjoying the pain medicine, and hoping he'd recover before John for once, just so he could rub it in. Not that he was that petty or anything, but the last time they were both stuck in the infirmary with different wounds from a different one of their 'Mission Impossibles', John had finagled a discharge before Rodney, and then stood and gloated while McKay suffered through a sponge bath behind closed curtains. Maybe not such a terrible thing, except the nurse giving it was the same one he'd accused of getting a degree from one of those ten dollar diploma mills. The water had been ice cold, and she'd rubbed unnecessarily hard in places. It only helped slightly that he'd tweaked her water supply and she'd suffered from cold showers for a week after he was released before coming and offering peace; a pardon for both of them, and start anew. He'd had her in the cusp of his control, when Radek had sauntered up and ruined everything by smiling politely and telling her he'd fixed her water problem. Go Radek…all the way to hell, do not pass go, and do not collect your two hundred korunas.

Unfortunately, he got his wish this time. Ronon and Teyla woke up on day two. It seemed it was a type of food poisoning. Bacteria that was similar to Listeria monocytogenes, but the alien version was just different enough from something that was not usually harmful, to be something that was potentially fatal. The people that lived with it every day had immunity, but visitors, they weren't nearly as lucky.

Elizabeth briefed him on the relief efforts for the Gnarians, and that Doctor Biro had isolated the source of the contamination. A dead cow had tested positive for the bacteria, and Nat had explained there had been more than a few items freshly made with milk products. They'd been upset over hearing that the team had almost died from the contamination, and Elizabeth in her cunning, had used it to get…nothing. Not that the Gnarians had anything left to trade with. Fortunes were reversed, and Elizabeth had gone forward with the belief of 'good neighbors' would benefit them in the long run. Whatever, in the end, all they had was some scant Intel to show for all the agony they'd had to endure. Somehow, the two didn't balance, and he was even more disgruntled when Carson made him get up and start walking.

"Quit complaining, McKay," Ronon said. The runner was sitting in bed, leafing through a magazine…was that? Rodney leaned forward on his third circuit around the infirmary and groaned. It was.

"Cosmo?" Rodney snapped, shooting a glare at Teyla. "It's not enough his body's been poisoned, now his mind, too?" He reached for the magazine, only to get air when Ronon pulled it in close. Ronon fixed a look of death on his face. Pulling his hand back, Rodney pretended like it was okay, but the next time Ronon fell asleep, the magazine would disappear, to go die a fast, hot, death.

Teyla smiled knowingly and said, "Ronon has been having problems interacting with the women from your world. Lieutenant Cadman lent the magazine to me."

He needed John. Sheppard would help him. There's no way John would rest while Ronon had his hands on a Cosmo…maybe. Rodney looked again at the cover and grinned, "Hey, she's kind of hot." Not Carter, but, you know, you see one blond, you see them all –

"Rodney," scolded Teyla. "Ronon, whatever you do, do not take lessons from Doctor McKay."

"Right," Rodney said with a snap. "Don't take lessons from the brilliant scientist with an IQ approaching two hundred. Instead, study a magazine mass produced by floozies with no bigger concern in the morning then 'does this shoe go with this skirt'?" Rodney raised his voice at the end, going for that soprano moment.

From the approaching thunder in Teyla's face, and Ronon's large cat amusement, Rodney figured things could get entertaining, but John's heart monitor sped up, and distracted him. Not even awake, and Sheppard was spoiling the joy of the moment. Rodney slumped to the chair, and relieved that Carson wasn't watching, he sat gingerly. He'd been ordered to take five laps, but three was close enough. Only two digits from each other.

"You can wake up now," Rodney hissed. "You've gotten your fifteen minutes of fame." John's eyes flickered, and for a brief second, Rodney thought he saw sclera, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

Rodney hated this part. Hated the waiting to see if Sheppard was really, truly, all right. He knew that it was a two-way street. He had woken more than a few times to see the haggard face staring at him, the grin breaking up the fear when he'd found some kind of dry, witty response to alleviate John's fear that he'd been irretrievably altered by whatever injury he'd suffered. It was expected. And Sheppard wasn't playing his part well this time because it was day two…day one was Rodney's maximum ability to wait without worrying; the true, grab his guts and be afraid, worry. And it didn't help one damn bit that this time he had the surgical scar to make that gut clenching more painful than usual.

He slouched lower in the chair, the only position that didn't cause his healing incision to ache horribly, and found himself drifting in tune to the calmer heart rates. Wherever John was, he was resting. Rodney found himself falling asleep, and only Carson's nudging insistence that he move back to his bed interrupted his reverie.

The night was long, and restless, and when morning arrived, McKay was surprised to find that Ronon and Teyla had been discharged before he'd woken up. Teyla had left a note saying they'd be back after breakfast, and Ronon had left his Cosmo with a post it that page seventy-four was 'really hot'.

And after he used the bathroom, and was slouching his way back, he realized John was watching him, staring at his slow shuffled progress across the infirmary. "You son of a bitch," Rodney swore. "Day three, Sheppard! Do you have any idea what you've done to my stomach lining?"

The weak smile didn't make it all the way to John's eyes, but he lifted a hand weakly, and waved a little before it fell back boneless to the bed. "You're kidding me," he whispered. "Nothing could damage the bowels of iron."

"Ha, you'd think," exclaimed Rodney. He detoured to the chair by John's bed, and again, eased himself into it very carefully. "Yet, you find a way."

"S'rry," John slurred. His eyes started to close, but Sheppard forced them open again, wider, and tried to focus more on McKay. "You okay?" he asked, noticeably angling his eyes down.

Rodney moved his hand over the sore spot, and felt himself repeat the question, "Am I okay?" The note of incredulity wasn't imagined or even regretted. "First Carson misses the completely obvious symptoms of appendicitis, and sends me off on the mission of Hurricane Gnarian, and then, if it weren't sucky enough, you three eat freely and get some mutant version of food poisoning, and almost die, forcing me to trudge back, again, hurricane, and get help, while, I might add, sustaining enormous pain and suffering from the aforementioned appendicitis!" Rodney paused to breathe and said, "But you ask, 'are you okay'…the answer, Sheppard, is NO. I'm not okay. I'm incredibly, far, not anywhere near, being okay. In fact, if you ever do this to me again, I'll -"

John's face was sleepy, and smiley, and drugged up goofy. He nodded at Rodney, his head moving only a little against the white infirmary pillow, tufts of his crazy hair moving slightly, too. "But you did it, McKay," he croaked. "You got to be the hero this time."

"I don't want to be the hero," Rodney refuted. "Never, ever again, and if you forget, I will remind you, painfully, loudly and with diagrams." He paused and considered the various torturous forms of memory recall. "I'm sure I could design a program that would fit on your alarm -"

"Rodney," John begged. When McKay stopped talking, and looked at him, John pointed ineffectively at the water pitcher on a nearby table. "Please," he added.

He debated for a second on continuing his tirade of promises to ensure that Sheppard never forgot, but John's face had gone all pasty and that worry stepped to the front in an unwelcome rush, and he found himself rising from the chair, hobbled by his incision, but getting the water anyway, and returning with it for John.

While John was finishing the glass off, and boy was Carson going to be pissed at him for letting Sheppard have that much to drink, Teyla and Ronon appeared through the doors, both looking more pale than Rodney liked, but up and walking normally, which was more than what could be said for him and John.

"And the other half that owes me arrives," Rodney smirked. Because suddenly, he was realizing they did owe him. Big. So maybe…

"Two-thirds, McKay," John said, his voice a little stronger after having drank the water.

Rodney waved his hand irritably, "Whatever." The point being, they were in his debt, and he could think of at least a few things this would be useful for. Beaming broadly, Rodney pointed a finger at Ronon and Teyla. "I've got two goons in my debt," he crowed, and then shifted his attention to John. "And, I've got a backlog of devices needing your magic touch."

Ronon grimaced, and threw an irritated look at John. "Want me to take him out?"

Teyla glared at Ronon, but included Rodney in it as well, and when Sheppard was about to answer, she said firmly, "Enough. We are all grateful for Rodney's…attempts -"

Rodney's smirk fell to dust. "Attempts, what," he looked at John and Ronon. "No, no – I saved you," he gloated. "You're not weaseling out of this debt."

"Weaseling?" asked Teyla innocently.

John gave a patronizing look Rodney's direction, "Getting out of, avoiding."

Ronon faked indignation, and Rodney was surprised at how comical the runner looked in the attempt, but he wasn't going to be sidetracked in such a juvenile attempt. "Oh fine, I get it. Make a trek to the gate, risk life and limb in the hurricane just to get YOU help, and I'm not letting this go."

Whether faked, or timely intervention, John started coughing, and didn't stop. He coughed hard enough that Ronon strode over and started pounding Sheppard on his back, and that made him cough harder, and by the time Carson was running out, John had started throwing up.

It was ten minutes later, when a furious Carson rounded on the three of them, two standing, one sitting, and all worried. "Who gave him an entire glass of water!" he demanded.

Rodney tried to look away, tried to pretend he didn't know a thing about it, but Carson could sense weakness a mile away. He was a doctor, after all, so it wasn't like Rodney was that bad of a liar or sneak. "He was thirsty," he snapped defensively. "I told him to stop."

There were a few moments of disjointed accusations, and then Carson told Teyla and Ronon to go rest like they'd been ordered, and he told Rodney to go lay down, and stay down, before turning to John and asking Sheppard if he wanted to throw up again any time soon. When John sheepishly said he'd rather not throw up for the rest of his life, Carson threw a dirty look at McKay and told John to quit trying to slug back pints of water on an abused and barely recovering belly.

So maybe they didn't owe him…too much, Rodney figured. Grudgingly, he supposed teammates did things like this for free every day. But, and this was a big but, that didn't mean he was ready to make it commonplace. Just so long as they got that, he was good. Rodney got into bed and kept watching John out of the corner of his eye. Carson assured him that John was going to be fine, it wasn't anything more than a healing stomach forced too soon to work. He wanted to point out that Carson's job had been to fix John's stomach so that he could actually drink water, and that three days was a long time to be stuck sipping down bag after bag of IV solution and ice chips, but Carson was sending him filthy irritated looks and mentioned Rodney had better lay down and shut up.

He glanced at John, looking for help, but John was falling back asleep, and Rodney guessed there was always time to get the last word in…later. Maybe Sheppard had the right idea. He was tired, not so surprising. Saving lives was tiring business, after all.


End file.
